mr. and mrs. eedwidge danticat sit in a penumbral space on the threadworn carpet woven by miscreants posing as persians. the tea kettle shrieks as the vermin eye tea bags tumble about in an ecstatic dance. mr. danticat shivers his carapace fingers over mrs. danticats cachexic spine, ignoring their pecuniary issues but for that moment, wherein he recalls her during their fealty days, when her hair was ochre and skin smooth like rubber; those bloody sunset nights when she would dress in armozine under full moons.

when the kettle boils over, they rush to it's whistling mouth and open up their wrists to pour the boiling tea in.....